Here is what we can cling to:
? God is impossibly loving. He loves us. He loves our families. He loves creation.
? God restores things; all of history points to a God who makes sad things right.
? God is very much paying attention. He is on the move—healing and transforming. He can do this. This is what He does.
? There is nothing too broken that God cannot mend and redeem. Really. Nothing.
? God doesn’t tempt, abuse, endorse wickedness, abandon, or hate. Let’s not lay evils at His feet that don’t belong to Him.
? For all of history, God has used suffering to make us stronger, even when it was born of sin, failure, injustice, or abuse. It is not wasted. It can even be precious.
? When we are crushed, Jesus is as close as our own skin. He suffered greatly, and we are molded more into His image when we share that spiritual space. There is a Jesus maturity only available to us in suffering. It’s true.
? He has given us to one another as agents of love and grace and safety.
? He told us hundreds of times to comfort each other, making sure we are cared for.
? Jesus wept over death and grief; shed your tears, friend. We have a Savior who cries.
? It is not our responsibility to explain why. We are family. We circle the wagons. We make casseroles. We weep with those who weep.
Suffering invites us to be radically human with one another, perhaps doing nothing more than reaching across the table, clasping hands, and crying together. We are afforded the chance to create a safe place for someone to mourn; nothing is needed but space, proximity, presence, empathy. Grief cannot be sidestepped; it must be endured. May we be a people who endure with one another well, slow to formulize and quick to empathize, because life is so very hard and until God reweaves all things, people are dying for a cold cup of water in their pain.
As for those sovereignty questions, I am sorry to say I don’t exactly understand how it all works this side of heaven. I’m just not sure. It is too complicated and nuanced and interwoven and not at all prescriptive (all the formulas dissolve under scrutiny). I can tell you what I make of the end game—I believe God’s sovereignty ultimately means He will have it all back. Every wrong will eventually be right. Every injustice will be overturned. Every tear will be dried. All the torn pieces will be rewoven. Every prayer utilized to bring us another inch closer to Jesus and more in partnership with His love. This earth and realm will be repossessed into glory, and God will have the world He dreamed of. Some redemption will be in our lifetime, and all of it will be in eternity.
Sovereignty means none of this is too far gone; nothing is outside God’s ultimate plans. No matter how off the rails this world appears, God’s eye has always been on the tiny, fragile sparrow. He has never lost count of an injustice, a life, a human being. No nameless death was ever nameless. No senseless abuse was ever missed. He may have set the whole earth in motion with its mix of humanity and spiritual realms and principalities, but only One is on the throne where He has always been and will always be. If we are still holding a pile of tattered threads, it just means the story is not over yet.
We can trust God entirely until heaven when He vanquishes all tears, all death, all mourning, all crying, all pain, and He reigns and He won and He fixed it all and saved it all and restored it all.
Grace and peace and mercy to you in the beautiful reweaving.
ONE MORE WORD AS YOU GO . . .
Yesterday, I was at level nine hundred crankiness. A combination of factors really: some online drama, a hard week in the news, a bit of travel fatigue, this relentless heat (go home, Austin, you’re drunk), and a general sense that the whole world is a mess and nothing will ever go right again and no one loves anyone and we are all doomed. No big deal. I’m not overreacting; YOU’RE overreacting.
Anyhow, savvy to my own red flags, I did what I always do when I’m careening toward a meltdown: I called my best friends. Well, let’s at least tell the truth—I texted them (I try to use my phone for actual phone calls never). I sent an SOS text lamenting “a cloud of yuck over my head” and asked them to come over for Happy Hour to sit on my porch together and fix me.
They showed up at 5:30 and left at 11:15.
We ate Chips and Salsa Dinner, and everything got put back together. As is usually the case, the yuck cloud had been hovering over all of us in big or small ways, so once again, the “me too” factor was healing in and of itself. And then, of course, all the other magical tools: Prosecco, cheese, funny stories, a few demonstrations of our most absurd yoga poses, picking up the fallen yogi after failing to master the “locust scorpion,” the kids running around the yard, fresh air, Chris Stapleton on the speakers, God in us and among us and for us.
Today, I’m thinking of you. Thank you for thumbing through all the previous pages and spending time with me here. I do not take your time and loyalty and love lightly. When I think of our tribe, the one you and I along with so many others have built, I think of girlfriends on the porch. I think of SOS texts and friends at the ready and laughter and a few tears and togetherness. Always the togetherness. Last night was a picture-perfect description of how I’d describe this community of women: all the mess, because we tell the truth, and all the moxie, because telling the truth sets us free.
I imagine you barefoot on my porch with a crisp glass of Prosecco paired with chips, because we aren’t fancy. I imagine you telling me outrageous and amazing stories of all your Bonus Moms and how they’ve loved you and rescued you. I’d like to hear your tales of renovations gone wonky and that one time you painted your kitchen fluorescent green because you were in a real mood. I bet you have your own version of the Private Baby brother story, and you can probably match my Driving Accidentally to San Antonio for a Field Trip gaffe, because motherhood is basically humility training. We could talk for days about how exercise is trying to kill us and would obviously devote a whole night to our favorite Netflix shows.
I also know you could absolutely identify with my stories of heartbreak and broken bodies and hurting kids and dreams gone sideways. I know you could, because you’ve told me. We’ve endured much. Sanctuary, Forgiveness School, the Cabin, the Grocery Store—you get my places; you have your own versions that are holy and hard and hilarious. No one came to these pages unscathed; we are learning and unlearning and figuring out what to hold on to and what to release. Sometimes life is great and sometimes it is painful beyond recognition, and yet here we all are: still standing.